You Are the Only Light
by 13pens
Summary: With Cora in Storybrooke and his family wanting to keep him away, Henry finds himself growing up much too fast. (Post 2x09, Cora doesn't frame Regina but instead stays with her in the mansion, and Hook doesn't exist. Contains Rose Queen, blink-and-you'll-miss-it Swan Queen, and Regina Henry. Warnings before fic.)
1. Chapter 1

**TRIGGER AND CONTENT WARNINGS: **incest, sexual abuse, mentions of murder/character death (non-graphic)

A/N: infinite thanks to my beautiful betha, and to bailey and amy for watching this fic come to life and refraining from murdering me in the process. infinite apologies to the rest of the brigayde that got caught in the middle of discussions.

* * *

You Are the Only Light**  
**

* * *

1

* * *

One hour every Saturday. That's all he asks for, and after fighting through incessant protests from his grandparents and hushed yet urgent warnings of _but _she_ is here_, he gets it. One hour with Regina at the diner or the library or the pier, that's all he wants and asks for.

Because, for all that has happened, Cora's arrival to Storybrooke has left heavy bloody footprints, and he can see them-god, does he see them-right in his mother's own eyes.

Their first day, Emma drops him off in front of the diner, wearing a face that is careful but so, so tired.

"She'd never let her hurt you," she says looking at Regina through the window, and he doesn't quite understand this thing that adults do, the way they say things out loud when they mean to say it to themselves.

"I know," he replies, fixes the top button of his flannel shirt. He beams at Emma like he knows no evil. "I'll see you tonight."

And when he walks through the door and watches Regina's eyes light up only half the shine as they used to, he is sure to know no other evil like Cora.

* * *

2

* * *

"What have you been doing lately?" he asks before biting into his hamburger. Regina looks up at him with endearing eyes, but the tinge of sadness and something more is not lost on him.

"Not much," Regina says, and he can see the way she tries to hold back a smile-it's been missing from her face for so long-because he never asks about her like this. She steals a fry off his plate and he scrunches his nose.

She hadn't ordered anything and he wants to ask, ask, ask.

"How are you, sweetheart?"

Henry gulps down his chewed food before answering, careful not to reflect learned habits from Emma. "I'm fine. But I kind of miss my room."

He shouldn't, he really ought to stop, and Regina's frown reminds him harshly.

"I've made this clear before, Henry, I can't let her anywhere near you-"

"She's here now, isn't she?"

She smiles, but her eyes are covered in watery film. "Don't make me do more than I have to. Can you promise me that?"

He doesn't quite understand, but he nods and drops the subject. They shove that conversation to the trunk of their minds, like it never happened, like it was understood from the dreadful beginning. It's not until he's in the yellow bug watching Regina recede into a dark home that he realizes that she's traded something.

"Emma," he calls from the backseat as they drive away, and he feels like he'll break.

"Yeah?"

"This is all she gets, doesn't she? Cora doesn't let her leave unless it's for this."

Emma doesn't answer, and Henry can't put his finger on why, but he thinks he's going to be sick.

* * *

3

* * *

No one sees her leave the mansion once, and every silent day of her absence makes his anxiety grow. Sometime before he sees her next, he dreams that as soon as the front door of what used to be his home closes, his mother bruises at the hands of her own. He dreams of green and purple, of blood and blue and _don't make me do more than I have to_.

Mothers love their children, don't they?

_I don't know how to love very well._

Don't they?

* * *

4

* * *

The library is empty, and although Belle has a wary eye, she doesn't interfere with the two of them, of what little time they have.

Henry brings his homework with him, and it's not that he doesn't know how to do it; he knows all of this useless school stuff. But he needs, desperately needs Regina to return to being Mom. He needs to see the way her hand scrawls out perfect and clear numbers, the way she writes in all capitals because he can't really read her cursive. How the muscles of her face move when she's thinking or encouraging him to think, and how she smiles with pride when he's given her a reason to.

It's better than watching her hands shake on her lap, the fear written all over her face when she's not focused on him. Hearing her explain how to isolate "x" is better than hearing her explain why Cora isolates her.

And when it's all done, he can't help it, he looks down and drops of salt water are smearing the ink on his papers. He asks, "Why is no one helping you?"

She kisses the top of his head, brushes the wet from his eyes like-like it wasn't even her problem he was crying about.

* * *

5

* * *

"Grandma?"

"Yes, Henry?"

"I'm worried about my mom."

She frowns. Her eyes are sad. "I know. Us, too."

And then a part of him is furious, because if they can see what he sees, if they can probably see _more_, why is no one helping her?

* * *

6

* * *

"Emma, you need to come with me when I see mom," he says over breakfast when they're alone. It's less of a request and more of a demand, but this is important, far more urgent than manners, not that Emma cares much about those anyway.

She agrees, because she really isn't the kind of person to leave Regina in danger, and even though she denies the role of the savior, Henry knows that if it's about saving Regina, she'll do it.

"I don't think it'll be as simple," she warns, and she has that scared look on her face. "But okay. What do I have to do?"

"Cora is doing something to mom and I need to know what."

"And then?"

"What else? We stop her." He adds in a playful "duh" because god, the way Emma is looking at him scares him _so much_.

"Yeah," she finally says, ruffles his hair. "Of course."

* * *

7

* * *

God, no.

Emma doesn't even say a word, just looks at Regina as she opens her arms, sleeved to the palms for Henry. She thinks he's not paying attention but he sees Emma studying Regina like a book and god, no.

He doesn't understand. He doesn't understand what could be so horrible if she's still breathing, if she's still intact. He doesn't.

When they drop Regina off at the mansion, it occurs to Henry right then and there that he's never quite seen Cora's face before. Up until then he's never really expected anything; in his dreams she only appears as hands.

And her hands are what he stares at as she opens the door for Regina and lets her in, placing her palm against her waist in a way that makes Henry's stomach churn.

In the dimly lit porch, he can see her eyes boring into his mother's, a pair of moonlight shine glinting of... of...

He doesn't know the word. But he knows, he sees, that she touches and looks at her daughter the way a mother should never touch and look at her child, a way that he knows Regina would never do to him.

Cora's eyes settle on the yellow bug briefly before closing the door.

Henry is about to tell Emma to go, but she's ahead of him by miles and miles and has never driven away so fast before.

* * *

8

* * *

"What did you see?" he nearly screams, and he would if Snow and David were not asleep upstairs.

And Emma, oh his brave knight mother Emma-she's _shaking_, the woman who slew a dragon and broke the curse and fought off ogres and _had Cora's hand stuck inside her chest, fingers wrapped around her pumping heart_-is _shaking_.

"What is going on?"

"I...Henry," she begins to explain, trying to calm him down, calm herself down. She opens her mouth and he needs something to come out, but she closes it again over and over.

She puts her hands on his shoulders and closes her eyes, taking a deep breath.

"I'll tell you tomorrow. I promise. I don't want you to sleep on it, okay?"

But he knows he'll be dreaming of blood and blue.

* * *

9

* * *

She puts a bucket in front of him and he's confused. She said she'd tell him about what she thought was happening, and he doesn't know what a bucket has to do with anything. But he doesn't question it, just holds it in place on his lap while Emma breathes in and out.

"When I was in the system," she begins, and pauses for what seems like a long time, "I... sometimes, the parents didn't act like parents. Do you know what child abuse is?"

He nods hesitantly. He must know, it's what has invaded his dreams every so often. A part of him is relieved because it has a name, and if there is a name for something, there is a way to deal with it.

"Well." Emma clears her throat and can't look him in the eye as her fingers shake and fumble. "Some people are really sick in the head, lowlife and just downright horrible, and they do that to their kids, and sometimes, they even-they-_do things_ that-"

Emma's sentences break up more and more but the less sense she seems to make the more tears pour out of her eyes, the heavier her voice becomes, and Henry gets why he needs the bucket because now he's thinking back to Cora at the door and the way she touched and looked and he's fighting back the bile, ducking his head and everything tastes so acidic-

_Don't make me do more than I have to_.

It's more than he can bear.

* * *

10

* * *

He doesn't know what to think, how to think, what to do, or where to start. When he sees Regina for the next month, everything seems to be still, like the curse was broken for everyone else but her.

An hour isn't enough anymore. It isn't enough for him to unsee Cora's anything against his mother's skin; it isn't enough to forget that when their time is over, she'll be leaving him and leaving safety to be with her.

And he's powerless. He wants to ask, no, demand for more time, but he made a promise when he wasn't even sure what it meant. Emma says it's not that simple, and Henry doesn't understand _why_, and she won't tell him _why_, why something so revolting has to be so complex, why still _no one is helping her_, why no one is helping _him_.

"Mom," he says to her at the pier. The skies are white with fog. "When does it stop? When does she let you go?"

She lets him cry against her, runs her hands through his hair but god knows if just a while ago they were-

"I don't know," Regina answers, without light and without hope. "I don't know."

* * *

11

* * *

On Miner's Day he's _almost_ able to forget. He sees her smile in what seems like forever, and he's a holding a candle and holding her hand, keeping her close as Snow and his mother give regarding and civil glances, and he _almost_ doesn't think about why she doesn't help. He just wants to think about _family_ and _safe_ and when did he grow up this fast? When did he start worrying about Regina after all he'd done to undo her?

No, that's not the thing to be thinking of, not when she's _outside_ and _smiling_, because when was the last time the two of them enjoyed anything together, just them without any book in between?

* * *

12

* * *

But all the same, the hour is over. The entire car ride home, he imagines Cora's hands taking his place in Regina's palm and leading her into her room.

This isn't the way it was supposed to be. He needs the bucket again.

* * *

13

* * *

"She wasn't in the book. Why wasn't she in the book? What else happened to my mom that wasn't in the book?"

Emma has no answers for him, and he tears the pages reeling with anger and grief and-because he is so, so perceptive to the point of early agony- finally everything _clicks_.

* * *

14

* * *

They say it's because Cora isn't a current threat, that although they've cast enchantments around the mansion and have kept an eye for her or Regina, they don't need to interfere.

Emma disappears every night and tells Henry she's on a mission, but he wants to be a part of it. He wants to do what everyone else is too cowardly to do and save his mother. Blue, Ruby, even his own grandparents-and he sees it now, he sees the gray when they claim white, that they are only good when good suits them. And he was just like them, _just like them_.

It shatters his entire world.

* * *

15

* * *

"I fucked up," Emma cries, stumbling into the apartment in the early hours of the morning and waking everyone. "I fucked _up_, I fucked up, Henry, I'm so sorry, god, I-"

"What? What?" David asks with an urgency that is half awake at best. Henry can't breathe.

"What did she do?" he asks, and that's when his grandparents have that look that he must have had when everything _clicked_.

And Emma's face, he's getting good at reading it now. He knows that it's not a matter of what she did, but what she will do.

* * *

16

* * *

Henry has her on the phone the day they're supposed to meet. She won't show, won't leave the house, and he just can't...

"I'm just sick, honey," she croaks into the phone. "I'll be better soon."

He was good at not believing her before, and he still is.

"Do you need me to bring you anything?"

"Mother has it under control," she says, and it's meant to assure him, but the voice that he hears is not Regina anymore. He doesn't know who this woman is, so unlike the mother he knew. His mother of strength and precision and care and delicacy and _passion_-has dissolved in Cora's presence.

It's all his fault. He shouldn't have pushed her away when he did. He shouldn't have. He gave her no choices and now Cora does the same.

It's all his fault.

"Mom?"

"Yes, Henry?"

_I'm sorry_. "Get well soon, okay?"

"Of course, Henry. I'll see you next week, like we planned."

But she doesn't, and when Henry hears not Regina's voice but Cora's on the phone the next time he calls, he hangs up without saying a word.


	2. Chapter 2

1

* * *

"_Mother_!"

He'll never hear anything else, perhaps for the rest of his life. A strangled cry resonating behind the walls _of his own home_, echoing in his head.

He doesn't knock on the door. His fist is balled up and in the air ready to punctuate the sounds - of god knows what but it doesn't sound natural, doesn't sound one ounce _human _- and he's right there, he is _right there_. He can knock and make it stop but then what after? What does he do when the door opens and he sees-

He turns around and bolts, runs and runs and runs back to the apartment he snuck out of late at night.

* * *

2

* * *

It's not anything like a coup, but it's an attempt wrung dry from Henry's tearful begging, Emma's fury, and the Charmings' inability to live with dirty consciences.

Weeks that should have been spent waiting for Regina's next meeting turn into sitting in Snow's room upstairs as the adults talk strategy below. He hugs a pillow and blocks out all the sound, because he doesn't want to hear them and the inevitable "but why should we do this for _her_?" and the following "it's for _Henry_" and no, no, no, that's not how heroes do things, no!

It's for Henry, they say, and when the day of execution rolls around, two fairies end up dead, hearts removed from their vessels, and other bodies littered on the lawn. Gold, all out of charms and enchantments, simply looks at the aftermath and shakes his head, like there is nothing to be done.

This is impossible. Why is it so impossible?

* * *

3

* * *

Dinner at home stirs no appetite.

"Regina doesn't want to be rescued," Snow says, grim in the face and under the eyes. But what does that even mean? How could this be happening to his mother and how could she not want to get _out_?

"She says what we're doing is only causing her trouble. And I only imagine that the trouble is..."

She doesn't say it, even though he knows. They try to keep him in the dark and he hates it because it is useless. He is too immersed to be protected.

"You knew it was happening," Henry finds himself saying, and he's so drained, so tired, but he feels acid rising. "You knew it and..."

Emma hands him the bucket, and his vision almost goes black.

* * *

4

* * *

The town wants to wage war for what Cora's done, and Henry feels sick again, because no one wanted to do anything when it was just Regina. No, suddenly it takes more to be _good_.

And ironically but expectedly, Regina pays the price: they leave her and Cora alone, and in exchange they will have their peace.

It's a deal quickly settled, because it's so easy. It's so easy to leave Regina behind.

"I'm sick, Henry," she tells him at night on the phone. "I'm sick."

* * *

5

* * *

He's afraid to hug Emma as he sleeps next to her, because now he knows that _it_ is real, that _it _is possible and that _it _is happening to someone he's known for all his life. And it's a horrible thing to think of because they'd _never_, and yet...

"Why doesn't she fight back?" he whispers. "If Cora hurts her so much, why doesn't she fight?"

Emma makes a sound and he thinks she might hurl, too.

"I'm not ready to have this conversation with you, Henry."

Her repulsion only makes him connect the dots, and he feels the blood drain from his face.

He wants to say it, but if he says it it would make it real. Instead he puts the thought away.

"You weren't kidding when you said it wasn't simple," he says, and he tries to laugh because he hasn't laughed in _months_, but the sound falls flat and it turns into a sob as he wipes furiously at his eyes.

His vision blears and he hears Emma shift on the bed to turn to him.

"Henry," she says in between his wheezing. "Listen to me."

He's covering his eyes and her hand is tight on his forearm, bringing him down, down, down until he starts breathing again.

"Your mom, without a doubt, is the strongest person I have _ever_ encountered. Do you know what makes her strong?"

Henry shakes his head, doesn't understand, doesn't know what strength has to do with it because what he thinks about is magic and power and that's not what's going to help his mom.

"It's because she has weaknesses. I know that doesn't make sense at first, but she has them, she has a lot of them, but she's walked through it all. In one piece. She went through Cora once before and then she raised _you_, and she can do it again."

"Then why," he chokes on a hiccup, "why isn't she?"

"She needs to _want_ out, first-"

"She needs out, period!"

It's stupid. Waiting is stupid and even though he knows in his heart of hearts that Emma is right, he could believe her better if there weren't such dark circles under her eyes or if her voice weren't so raspy from arguing with Mary Margaret and David or if she didn't always clench her jaw until she spoke to him.

He could believe her better if Emma _knew_ things would be okay, and everything is stupid and he just wants to be able to pluck Regina out of harm's way because she's bruising and bleeding and _I'm sick, Henry_.

* * *

6

* * *

Saturday morning he hears them whispering in the kitchen. He doesn't move, because they think he's asleep, and maybe finally they're getting somewhere, but then-

"She's with child," Snow says gravely. "She has been since not long after Cora had arrived."

Emma drops the mug in her hands and it shatters all over the wooden floors.

* * *

7

* * *

He dunks his head in a tub full of ice cold water because you can't hear anything underwater, and the sting distracts him just enough for him to momentarily forget that this is his life, these are his battles.

His mother is pregnant. And the baby-brought by magic, there's no other way it can be explained-is Cora's.

Henry raises his head, takes a big gulp of air, and splashes under once more, over and over, as much as he needs to.

* * *

8

* * *

It never, ever would have occurred to him before that Regina loved, or even loves, Cora. He didn't think that was why she couldn't stand up and say _no_ and _run_. But it's because, just like he loves Regina despite her past crimes and her betrayal of him, she loves Cora even after her abuses.

But it _still_ doesn't make sense to him, because it's _different_. What Cora does, Regina would never, so why?

And then he sees it. It's because she loves, and loves, and loves, and in return is hurt, is hurt, is hurt.

And it's his fault, too.

Instead of walking back to the apartment from school, he makes his way to Mifflin Street and doesn't care if anyone catches him.

* * *

9

* * *

He's afraid he might hear it again as he approaches the door, but he's determined and this time when his fist balls up to hit the wooden surface he doesn't freeze up.

He knocks three times, loud enough to be heard from above, and he holds his breath for what he feels is a minute before he hears the sound of thumping feet descend the stairway.

Regina won't be answering the door. He knows it even before it opens.

Those moonlight eyes are now just a deep and dull brown staring down at him. He's not afraid of her. He knows he should be, and the way she looks at him makes him feel like she would not have any qualms in killing him right then and there, but he's not afraid.

It's only because he hasn't seen. And god, he hopes he never does.

"Good afternoon, Henry," she says, and her voice is so sickly sweet but he doesn't tear his eyes away from hers.

"Hi," he says, and for all the self assurance prior to this borderline insane mission, he sounds pathetic. "I came to visit my mom."

"It's not your day of the week, you know."

"I haven't seen her in months, and I want to see my mom."

Cora stands still, doesn't move, until she finally widens her smile and huffs a laugh.

"Very well, Henry."

She opens the door to its full width and he runs through and up the stairs, not stopping to look back.

* * *

10

* * *

He can practically hear all the alarms go off in her head when she sees him. The last thing she ever wanted was to have him anywhere within Cora's reach, and now he's _here_.

She slumps back against her pillows, a hand over her growing bump.

He doesn't know what to say. He sees it and it's real, the child in her belly, the absence of color on her once vibrant face, her arms now without sleeves and her neck now without scarves. It's real, and there's really nothing that him being brave can do.

* * *

11

* * *

He can't cry now, he really can't, because it's her turn and two crying people doesn't get anything done, whatever there _is_ to be done.

Regina hides her face in her hands and sobs, sobs an ocean. "I'm sick, Henry. I'm a monster and I'm sick."

Henry kneels at her bedside-his knees were giving in, anyway-and he looks at her, _really_ looks at her and it's so hard not to cry.

"We'll take care of you," he blurts, even though he doesn't know the weight of his words or how he'll keep them. "We'll find a way. You'll be okay. You will be."

And she shakes her head furiously, because Cora's standing outside the door and _of course_.

* * *

12

* * *

What he does next is a near death wish.

"I should stay over the night," he says, right in front of Cora, and the smile that spreads across her face is so sickly and Regina's skin is so, so pale.

He's already late an hour of going home; Emma, Snow, and David will be ready to tear down the door when they realize what he's done. But no, _this_ is his home, the only one he's ever known and he is not going to let it be Regina's hell.

"What a marvelous idea," Cora drawls. "You can even join us for dinner."

* * *

13

* * *

When Cora's hands linger on Regina's arms, or when her lips are far too close to Regina's ears, Henry knows what she's trying to do. It makes whatever appetite there was diminish and he tries to hold it down, tries to keep himself together because he was always sickened by the idea but now it's the _real thing_ and god, what was that flutter of Regina's eyelids, what was that brief smile?

("_Mother!_")

Did she _want_ this?

No, no - all the same, she doesn't deserve this, it doesn't change anything. And then he thinks of Emma, of _she needs to want out, first_, and how it all doesn't make sense to him at all but nothing is ever going to make sense if he fights all these battles at once.

"Henry, you haven't touched your food," Cora says to him and he wants to bolt. Their dinner is probably laced with a spell, a curse. It would explain to him why Regina won't fight, won't _leave_; why Regina lets those bruises form on her arms and why she is _having a baby._

He holds on to those suspicions and does the same thing he did for Emma and that turnover. He stares Regina in the eyes, silently begging for her to _see_, and when he lifts the fork into his mouth and absolutely nothing happens to him, he doesn't understand.

He wants to change his mind. He can't handle any of it, and suddenly he thinks about things that grownups say to kids, how "you'll know when you're older", and if _this_ is their world, if _this_ is what he has to live in? He wants to run, run very far, just like he did just a year ago except now it's for entirely different reasons.

They eat in silence and he can see the tears pebble in Regina's eyes, and it's jarring, it's so wrong, against Cora's smile and languid satisfaction.

* * *

14

* * *

When night falls and Regina's door has locked, he coops himself in his own room and prays, really prays that he doesn't _hear_.

And when footsteps approach, he finds that he doesn't recognize the sound, the distinct thump of bare heels and the padding of toes. He holds his breath, because surely it's Cora coming to kill him, this is it - but it's Regina who opens the door.

"You need to leave," she whispers urgently, putting her hands on Henry's shoulders, and there is just something so _wrong_ about how this time when she bends down to his height there is that bulge jutting out of her stomach. "While she's asleep, you need-"

"_I_ need to?" he snaps, because god, _he doesn't understand_, "Why are you letting her do these things to you? You can fight her, I know you can!"

"Sweetheart, shh-"

"I don't get it!"

She falls silent, and the tears come again, from both of them this time, like a dam has broken behind their eyes. He can't take looking at her and he mentally beats himself for letting his eyes settle on the bump.

"It's really hers, isn't it? That's there because of her."

She makes a face, and he really can't believe it. "_She_, Henry. The baby is a girl."

He wants to hurl because it's just so vulgar, how gentle her voice sounds, as if that child would be _his_ little baby sister, when it's really just _hers_.

But a baby is the least of their problems, not in the big picture and he pushes it, pushes the revulsion away because that's not what he's here to do.

"Then it doesn't have to be with Cora," he nearly begs. "You can be with us, and we can take care of you, you and the baby. We really will, I promise, I-" He means to say more but now the tearful hiccups have impeded his speech.

"Love from my mother is all I ever wanted," she begins, and lord she is _justifying_ and he shakes his head, closes his eyes shut. Because when she says that, he gets it. And he thinks, oh god does he think, back to _I love you_ and _no you don't_ and _I don't know how to love very well_.

And then he can't believe what she says next, how she really looks him in the eye as she places a loving hand over her belly and says, "She _does_ love me, Henry. That's why she's given _her_ to me."

It's horrible and it hurts.

"This isn't love," he cries, voice murky with frustration and despair. "That isn't love."

He doesn't hug her, even though he really wants to, and instead holds her hand tight, tight, tight-and he wants to say that it's _this_.

_This_ is love.

And then he thinks, what right does he even have?

* * *

15

* * *

When he goes out the front door, quickly but quietly, Emma and his grandparents are already outside the gate. He runs to them but doesn't look at them, at their eyes or their faces. He doesn't want to read the fear or horror or anger.

"Take me home."

He feels Emma's hand on his back. "Okay," she says so, so gently. "Come on, then."


	3. Chapter 3

1

* * *

He is so tired and numb. A heavy weight presses down on his entire being, but he doesn't feel anything else, just that. He doesn't leave his bed and he doesn't even check the clock anymore, because that hour on Saturday is not going to come.

Emma sits by his legs and places a hand on his knee. "We need to talk."

"I don't want to."

"Please," she presses, but she's still gentle, still kind.

Henry doesn't respond, just nods after a few seconds and looks the other way.

"I know this is the last thing you want to hear," she starts, and she's right - he's can see it coming and he's about to get up and leave, but this is Emma, the only person he can put what little of his faith he has into. "But you're still just a kid, Henry. There are things you don't get, even if you think you do."

It makes sense to him. And he feels so defeated already, so he nods again.

"You're right, though, what's happening is wrong, and the fact that Regina is still in there with Cora is wrong. The fact that I can't just go in there and cuff her and lock her up for life is-is _shit_. If this were any other place, any other without freaking _magic_, I could, and god, I would."

"You told me that she needed to want to get away first."

"I did. And I still think it's true."

"But that's not going to happen, is it, Emma?" And now he's starting to regret letting Emma talk to him, because the numbing walls are coming down and now all he feels is sadness and frustration and all these things pressing down on his little body. "She told me all she ever wanted from Cora was love, but... I don't get it."

Emma sighs, pushes his brown, sweat-drenched hair back with her hand. "Regina was so, _so_ good to you, Henry. I was wrong, actually. You don't understand, but it's not because you're just a kid. It's because you never had to."

* * *

2

* * *

Henry recedes into the dark where everyone else had intended to keep him; he has no desire to leave ignorance. But then night falls and the dreams turn into nightmares, no longer of blood and blue. Now he dreams that Regina is drowning and not moving her arms or legs, just letting herself sink and no matter how much he tries to pull her up, he's too small, too light-

He wakes up calmly, but his face and pillows are soaked with tears.

* * *

3

* * *

Two months later, at 3:06 AM on a Wednesday, Emma's cell phone rings loud enough to wake both of them, and when it's Regina on the other line, she runs straight out the door.

He almost follows her, but when the sun is finally up, Emma calls the landline and tells him to please stay there, that everything is going to be okay now and she means it, she means it even though there is a deep sadness tangled with her relief.

"Trust me," she says, because she knows him so well and she knows he needs to be reminded. "Trust your mom."

Henry doesn't remember when he started holding his breath, but he finally lets it go.

"Okay."

* * *

4

* * *

When Emma comes home, it's like the weight of the world has been lifted from her shoulders, but they still sag downwards from exhaustion. Henry looks for signs that she told the truth when she said things were going to be okay, and when Emma nods with a watery smile and equally watery eyes, he runs up to hug her with all the might he could muster.

"Thank you," he muffles into her jacket, but then she starts shaking again because even though it's over, it's finally over, she is still sad and he doesn't know why.

But she doesn't say anything about it, just hugs him tight, tight, tight.

"She'll be okay," she whispers, "We'll make sure she will be."

* * *

5

* * *

He's ready to see her, he tells himself. He's ready to see the bright back in her face, the warmth visibly running through each limb instead of fearful, stiff movements; just to see her be _herself_ again, all the fire and passion and precision. But he doesn't think he's ready to see the girl. No one's talked about her, and he wonders why that is, but he's not prepared.

But... he could be, he really could be. He could learn to forget where she came from and she could be part of his family, where he could make sure she was safe, much safer than with Cora. He could even help give her a name. None of this was her fault, anyway. And he saw the way his mother's eyes shone when she spoke about her, and in retrospect, once he got past the insanity of it all, he could see _happiness_.

He could be prepared for that, for that kind of future, but nothing-nothing in this world or the next-could have prepared him for opening the hospital door and finding Regina's stomach flat and her arms empty.

The bright hasn't even returned to her face.

And then he understands why Emma was crying, why that's all this family ever seems to do.

"You have been the only light," she says into his hair as he cries in her arms, the arms where the baby should have been. "You always were."

* * *

6

* * *

They lead him out of her hospital room because she needs to rest-something about heavy tissue damage. They don't tell him how that happened, but he can put that together with the baby that is not there and figure it out, although not without feeling sick.

Emma briefs him in the car ride home, that it's nothing that sleep and healing magic won't fix.

"Is Cora...," he pauses, because saying her name makes him anxious and scared all over again, "Is she... dead?"

Emma shakes her head, and waits until they turn at the corner to answer. "No. She's in jail."

"But she has magic."

"And now she has her heart," Emma replies, clear but soft and painful.

He doesn't... "I don't get it."

She sighs, and he's heard it so many times and thinks he knows what it means now, especially when she says, "Maybe Regina will tell you."

* * *

7

* * *

Regina is released from the hospital two weeks later, and she's okay, she'll be okay for as long as Henry will live, once her strength builds up again and she doesn't need to hold on to his shoulder or Emma's arm to walk. He needs to be careful about how hard he hugs her, because there are still bruises and there is still healing left to do.

They take her into the apartment, because she isn't ready to go home, and neither is Henry, not with those sullied memories.

Maybe when they are able to wash it all away with new ones of love and forgiveness and loyalty. Of warmth and wellness and laughter.

"We'll take care of you," Emma says to Regina, and her eyes water because Emma really is one of his mothers, she really is.

And Snow-he had questioned her integrity and her courage and her everything, after idleness and _you knew this was happening_. But she's the one that brings Regina glasses of water, cups of coffee just the way she likes it, blankets and pillows and when sweat glistens on Regina's head, Snow is the one that wipes it away, so so gently. She takes care of Regina with such grace that the tears that pour out of her eyes feel like they don't belong.

Henry doesn't know what to call many things, but he knows regret and sorrow too, too well.

"If you want to help me, Snow, you should stop that crying," Regina snaps, almost spilling her coffee, and he can hear it. He can hear the _fire _lighting up again. "At one point I would have gone extra lengths to drink your tears, but surely not this way."

And Emma chokes on her cereal, and they all laugh, Snow wipes at her eyes and laughs, and there is still so much healing left to do, but right now it's okay.

It's okay.

* * *

8

* * *

He doesn't remember the last time he'd slept beside Regina - perhaps when he was four or five, when night terrors would come to him and he'd make his way to her bedroom where sleepy arms took him in and gave him shelter. It's the same and it's different. Now it means more, and he knows that Regina would have traded everything for things to be like this again, and Henry realizes that so would he.

And he's so tired, he's missed her so much. He has his forehead under her cheek, tucked in securely and she's warm and she smells like she always did, of home and safety and filling in coloring books beside her as she read, of her blankets and her clothes and god, he might start crying.

"Emma can't sleep on the couch forever," she whispers because she knows him and knows that he couldn't possibly be asleep by the way he clutches at her. "We'll need to go back home soon."

He listens to her breathing for a while before closing his eyes for the last time that night. "When you're ready," he sleepily replies. And suddenly he feels so much older than he is. "Take your time."

* * *

9

* * *

"You've grown so much taller," she comments as they walk down to town hall, her arm over his shoulder. "I feel like I've missed so much."

She sounds tiny again, like when Cora was still inside the house and she was on the phone telling him she couldn't see him yet. And he just walks close, looks up at her and smiles.

"That's okay," he says with honesty. It's not her fault. It never really was.

* * *

10

* * *

Within a week they're back in the mansion, and Henry doesn't let go of her hand as they walk around the house. A part of him still can't believe that they can do this, that he doesn't have to wait all week for an hour that would end in crying. That he is free to come home or that Regina is free to leave. It's like he is dreaming.

But although Cora isn't here anymore, he can tell by the way Regina stiffens up again or how her shoulders sag heavily or her eyes are full of deep, deep despair, that the heavy bloody footprints are still there in every corner. There are still traces of her and he tries to understand that there's still so much healing to do and now he's used to waiting, he's used to needing time.

They go into the dining room, where they had received him just months ago, and he can see it replaying, Cora's touches and Regina's flutters, and that's when he holds onto her hand tighter, overriding these images with _this_, _this is love_.

And that's what she must be doing as well, because she exhales, breathes out the hurt. She cries, then, looks down at the floor and cries.

"I'm sorry you had to see it, Henry," she rasps. "I'm sorry you had to know."

"That's not your fault," he says, and it echoes in his mind because it's true, true, true.

She smiles down at him through wet eyes. "You sound like Emma when you say that."

Henry shrugs. "She knows this stuff."

Regina kisses the top of his head, and for now things are good. Things are getting better, and the bright can return to her face once more.

* * *

11

* * *

They sit cross-legged on Henry's bed, heads turned down and almost touching as they stare at each other's hands. This talk is long overdue, because Henry is a growing boy and he's learned so much, too much, and he can't keep it inside anymore. Regina, so regretful of it all, knows it more than anyone, maybe even more than Emma.

"Cora didn't have her heart inside her," she starts, voice low and soft and if only he couldn't understand a word, it would be like when he was small and she was lulling him to sleep with gentle stories. "And when you don't have your heart, Henry, you don't feel the things necessary to connect with people. You don't feel much pain, or regret, or sorrow. That's what made it easy for Cora to do what she did. But without your heart, Henry, you also don't feel love, not the way you should feel it.

"My mother taught me that love was weakness, but I thought I could earn it from her anyway. She taught me that approval was the next best thing to love, and could even replace love. On my part it was through obedience and acceptance, and discipline on hers. But that never felt right to me, and I knew that with - with Daniel. But I knew that especially when I had you, Henry. You were different."

Henry feels his face involuntarily contort as tears pebble and drop from his eyes because god, those words set off so much guilt in his heart.

"No," he says, "I wasn't. I called you evil and pushed you away and I didn't really stop to think about you until you got hurt this bad."

"I lied to you."

"You didn't deserve that, still."

She lifts her thumb and brushes away the wet from his cheeks, and a part of him is happy because this is Mom again.

"Who else?" he asks. "Who else did... what else happened to you that wasn't in the book?"

Regina closes her eyes, and needs to hold his hands for this one. "Snow's father."

"Did he have his heart?"

"Yes."

"What's his excuse?"

"He had none."

"So Cora does?"

She sighs, pushes her head closer and leans on the top of his. "No. There is no excuse. I explained the absence of her heart to you because I called Emma that one morning after I put it back in."

He almost forgot, he almost forgot Emma in the car and how unclear she was. It clicks and oh, god, he imagines Cora's moonshine eyes going from dark to light, the realization dawning on every fiber of her being and the _horror_, the _pain_ and the _regret_ flooding her completely. He imagines his mother _watching that happen in front of her_, and he imagines how hard it must have been to see that and still call Emma to arrest her instead of forgiving her simply for regretting.

How hard it must have been to realize that now she could have real and true love from her mother, like she had always wanted, but by then there were too many scars and it was too late.

It's Regina's turn to start dropping tears over their joined hands, and she's tensing up and bringing one hand over her belly, shaking, shaking- "And I put it in because-because the-"

Henry shakes his head, shuts his eyes tight. "You don't have to say it if you don't want to. I know. I know what happened."

She's crying so heavily and he doesn't even care that it's all they ever do, because there's still so much more healing to do and it's okay to wait.

* * *

12

* * *

Many months later, it is once again one hour every Saturday.

But it isn't for him and Regina, not this time. It's for Regina and her mother.

There is no _but she's still dangerous_ or _she could still hurt you_, because she's made no room for that. Cora's been weighed down by her rusty and guilty heart, and Regina is not a small, powerless person. Cora had been moved to a different location out of the jail cell and into another building, magic proofed with the aid of Mother Superior and Gold. Regina is not small, she is the mayor.

The new building is a house, and though Cora cannot leave, Regina has made sure that the only kind of suffering she endures is the one she has brought on herself. She lives comfortably in all other ways, with a bed to sleep in and good food to eat. Every week they talk, of what, Henry doesn't know, and sometimes she brings her books. But she is never softened too much to forgive completely. But it never means that she has to be cruel.

Regina is not small. She is a survivor, and she is _kind_.

* * *

13

* * *

When Regina is out seeing Cora, Emma takes him out for ice cream, and they eat it in the buggy with the radio on. It feels like the most normal thing he's done with her in what seems like forever.

"I'm in awe of your mom sometimes," Emma says lightly, biting into her sugar cone and staring at the streets.

"Yeah?" Henry asks, grinning behind his cone, and there's this pride he feels. Emma nods.

"To be hated by her is a nightmare. But to be loved by her, Henry?" She pauses, and man, if she's got another thing in her eye. "It's such a gift."

* * *

14

* * *

Henry hasn't felt so sick in a long, long time, and it's not as bad as it used to be, as the first time he had felt there was something wrong. But deep down he's still afraid, even though he knows he's safe.

"You can change your mind any time you want," Regina tells him, holding his hand. He's grown so tall that the top of his head is at the tip of her ears now, but at this moment, he feels like the little scared boy he was again. "You don't have to see her just because I've asked you to."

She is so, so good to him and he wishes it would never change.

"No, I'll go," he says after swallowing the fear. This is what heroes do, after all.

* * *

15

* * *

The first thing he notices when he sees Cora is that she looks older. There had always been this youthful and overpowering air around her, but now it's gone and has been replaced by a gentle but deep sadness shown by the gray strands of hair on her head.

Regina remains behind him as he approaches her chair.

"Hi," he says to her, just as pathetically as he did the first time but now without all the defense, and now he's looking down instead of up.

She smiles at him. And he can't believe how sad, how soft she looks.

"Hello, Henry," Cora says, and she even sounds it. "How are you?"

"I'm fine," he awkwardly replies, because he doesn't know how to talk to the woman responsible for so many dark things in his mother's and his lives when she's transformed into someone who is so small, so powerless.

Regina senses his unease and tells him he can sit on the couch on the other side of the room and wait there. When he goes, she sits on the coffee table and folds her arms, legs crossed at the ankles, and she won't touch Cora, but her face and voice is warm.

He looks at them and doesn't really listen to what they talk about as he sits. Their eyes are bright even though remnants of heavy darkness still swim, and when they laugh it is almost the sweetest thing he's ever heard. It sounds so clear and warm, like rustling trees in spring or creeks and rivers. Like crystal and orange leaves and love that is hurt but is healing, too.

When the hour is over and they hug goodbye, he can't see it anymore. He doesn't feel sick anymore.

He thinks about what Emma said to him, that Regina's love is such a gift, such a blessing.

And after everything, after all this, he's convinced that even if she's refracted at times, she is the only real, true light in this world. She is the only one.

_end_


End file.
